And I’m off – again. My final night in the shithole is complete and I’m heading for El Prat for a 09:55 flight to Paris. With great relief I pack my bags and leave this place. It’s early morning, but it’s still bloody hot.

I finished Interesting People last night. There’s one word for this book: bleak. There’s a quote on the front from Annie Proulx saying that this is “funny, clever and sardonic”. She needed to add “bleak”. It’s good, but don’t read it if you like any form of happy ending. I’m now on Emile by Jean Jacques Rousseau. I’ve been reading this on and off for quite some time and it will be good to finally finish it. It’s a treatise on the ideal way to raise a child. Some interesting ideas, but they are clearly “of their time” and would not be condoned in our 21st century world.

I get to El Prat nice and early via a packed Aerobus. I gird my loins for the usual grapple with security. This time, they don’t care about my toiletries, but I have to take my boots off to put them through the scanner. As usual with every Departure lounge so far, I’m absolutely dripping with sweat by the time I get through. I’ve decided I’m definitely allergic to them.

I have an hour to go before the gate is announced. I head to the cafe and have their Iberian Menu breakfast: coffee, orange juice and an iberico ham sandwich. While there I see they have empanadas and, as I haven’t tried them, I get one of them as well. I settle myself down for a leisurely breakfast – which is probably the most authentically Spanish one I’ve had so far.

When the gate is announced, boarding is a whole different type of fun. I’m dreading the trip as I have the same seat as I did on the flight from Berlin. If there’s anyone sat beside me, it will be very uncomfortable. So when they announce the gate, I nervously head over to find two very efficient women who are already behind the desk and getting everyone in line with nearly an hour to go before departure. Nevertheless, I get in line.

By 09:00, there is quite a line and the two women have disappeared along it as they check boarding passes. I spot a potential flaw in their plan as boarding is scheduled to being at 09:10 – but there is quite clearly no plane there. The plane turns up at 09:20 and the passengers amble out. No sign of the women running the desk. If they don’t turn up, I can see this will turn into a massive scrum. Luckily (if being painfully early counts as “luck”), I’m near the front of the queue and I fancy my chances. Just as the last passenger exits, one of the women ambles towards the desk with the same enthusiasm that French royalty showed for the walk to the guillotine and she starts to check boarding passes again – apparently the first time was just to get us into the right queue.

I head on board and to my delight find that there is significantly more leg room than last time – so I stop cursing EasyJet. It’ll still be snug should I get anyone beside me. When the inevitable person turns up, it’s not too bad as he’s quite small and his attention is all on the person in the aisle seat. (I can’t actually work out the relationship of my two fellow travellers, but after they spend sometime stroking each others knees, they share airbuds to watch some awful looking cartoon on their phone. I suspect they’re “intimate” rather than related.) I should point out at this stage that the seats in front of me that have the really good leg room are filled with three really short people,. who clearly do not need the room. I have a mental grumble about that and consider starting some kind of charity for the plight of tall people on airplanes.

Despite the best efforts of the staff, we’re still boarding at 09:55 when we should have been taking off. I worry this will be another debacle, but they close the doors at 10:00. There is then a delay when someone insists on taking their child to the toilet …. that earns them a damn stern glare, I can tell you! There are interminable safety announcements in three languages and then we do the usual tour of the airport before lurching into the air at 10:30.

We land without incident an hour and a half later. And “incident” includes being offered any refreshments! They get the trolley out, deal with the row in front of and behind me, then change their minds and take the trolley away. To be fair, I’d only have been eating out of greed – but that is often my most powerful motivator.

When we land, I expect to be delayed in getting off the plane. The couple beside me (because that’s what I’ve decided they are), arrived late and had to stow their luggage some way down the cabin. So I expect to be sat here until they can get to it. To my surprise, as soon as the tiny people in front of me leave, the couple moves to those seats and allow me to make a rapid exit before the majority of the passengers. Very good of them.

Charles de Gaulle is exactly what you would expect from a big airport – nothing special at all. I head out to the bus stop and wait for about 10 minutes before giving up and heading for the train station instead. I get my ticket out of a vending machine which spews a little cardboard ticket about 3cms long and 1cm wide. It looks so little like any ticket I’ve ever used that I check with an attendant to make sure this is actually a ticket. I get my first incredulous look of the day – 12: 30; much later than usual.

I head down to the platform and find the insanely long train and grab a double seat in a virtually empty carriage. We are joined by a pigeon that it very keen on heading into the centre of Paris, and has to be herded out twice by the only other occupant of the carriage. The one thing that stands out here is that no masks are required, so mine gets stowed and won’t be needed for the rest of the trip.

I get out at Gare du Nord and walk across to my hotel The weather is still sunny and while it’s not as hot as Barcelona, it’s still very warm. It’s great to be listening to a language that I almost understand and the whole atmosphere here is far nicer than Barcelona. The streets I’m walking down are narrow and busy, but I find myself relaxing.

My hotel is the Hotel De Paris Saint Georges, in Rue Jean Baptiste Pigalle. This isn’t the best area of Paris, but it’s close to Montmartre and about half a mile from Sacre Coeur. It’s online reviews are highly variable and after my experience in Barcelona, I’m understandably concerned. Check in isn’t until 15:00, but I decided to head across and see if I can leave my bag there while I go out and get some food. The exterior does not allay my concerns. I’m also still worried about the financial situation and want to ask if I can use a different card to pay.

I head in and use my extremely poor French to explain all of the above. The guy at reception is great – he tolerates my extremely poor French, he doesn’t want to be paid until I leave and my room is ready now, so I can head up immediately. The relief is like a weight off my shoulders. He takes my up to my 7th floor room in a very small and extremely creaky lift. The room is small, but has its’ own bathroom and is nicely decorated and HAS A WINDOW!! I get a vertiginous view down to the street far below and a view over the Paris rooftops. If I look up to the left, I can see Sacre Coeur. Like a muppet, I didn’t keep any photographs of either of these things – so I stole these photos from their Tripadvisor page.

Feeling much better than I have for the last three days, I head down and ask if they can recommend a restaurant. He is very happy to assist me and recommends the Bouillon Pigalle which is about two hundred yards away. I head up, carefully negotiate the roped off queuing area outside and head in to the busy restaurant. Bouillon Pigalle is a bistro with very fast service and strikes me a bit like Wagamama’s – except that the waiting staff are polite and friendly and the food is exceptional. (One caveat here, I had to change my mind on Wagamama’s after a visit to one in Hammersmith last month – quite turned me round on them). The menu is a mouthwatering list of French classics.

They are very efficient and there is a QR code on the table, so you can access the menu in several different languages. I stick with French, but with the occasional sneaky glance at the English menu to make sure I knew what I was ordering. I end up with escargots and beef cheeks washed down with a half bottle of Chardonnay.

It is all fantastic, so it would be rude not to have a dessert. I order Isle Flottante which is washed down with a tiny cup of strong savoury coffee which manages to be bitter without being unpleasant.

You can pay using the QR code, which I do and add a hefty tip. They’re on the ball and knew that I’d paid as I head for the door. Only 200 yards from the hotel? Traveller, we will meet again!

Before I left, one of my friends (let’s be honest, it was Roz), was banging on about me visiting Sacre Coeur. As it happens, I wanted to see it anyway as I remember it from a junior school project I’d done about Paris. So, at least one (and maybe two) sheets to the wind, I head for Sacre Coeur. It’s nearby and, after all, how hard can it be?

As it turns out, bloody hard! You see, the streets get steep and at the top of them are steps – which are also steep. And beyond the steps are more steps. And the other side of those steps are even more steps, until finally I start to believe that Sacre Coeur doesn’t actually exist and I’m stuck in some kind of Escher-style nightmare.

It’s worth the trip though. I stagger to top of the 22,000 stairs (ok, maybe 100 or so) and find that approximately half of the population of Paris has had the same idea. Sacre Coeur is a beautiful edifice and there is a stunning view of the city from here.

The metal fences up here are all covered with these bloody ubiquitous “love” padlocks and I wonder where people get them from. Almost immediately, two people try to sell me some. Seriously, I’m clearly here on my own, so who would I be buying one of these dumbass things for? My invisible friend, Herve? Also, surely it would be more meaningful if they were bought elsewhere rather than being a spur of the moment purchase. Add that to the list of mysteries about relationships.

I slowly head down the hill and find that Paris isn’t scared of advertising its’ problems, while still giving me some excellent views.

I consider heading over to the Moulin Rouge to get some photos, but I’m knackered and I head back to the hotel for a quiet evening